The night shift was slow, almost painfully quiet, except for the occasional annoying customer wandering the aisles.

You were restocking shelves when a man came up, muttering complaints about the cereal selection. You tried to ignore him, but Ben, leaning casually against the checkout counter, gave you a sly grin.

“Watch this,” he whispered.

The man waved his arms dramatically, complaining about the “horrible arrangement of boxes.” Ben, barely hiding his smirk, stepped forward.

“Yes, sir,” he said in a mock-formal tone, “we hired a highly trained team of cats to organize the cereal. They work exclusively at night and are unionized. I apologize for their absence tonight.”

You tried not to laugh, but a snort escaped. The customer blinked at him, utterly confused, before muttering and walking away.

Ben looked at you, eyebrow raised. “Your turn.”

You rolled your eyes but joined in, mimicking a snooty accent. “Excuse me, sir, we only accept payment in ancient coins from the lost city of Atlantis.”

Ben burst out laughing, grabbing your shoulder. “Yes! Finally! Someone who gets it.”